


World of V

by vvv (pirori)



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Conversations, Dadgil, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Internal Conflict, Into The Spardaverse Week, Mentioned Dante (Devil May Cry), Mentioned Eva (Devil May Cry), Mentioned Nero (Devil May Cry), Mentioned Sparda (Devil May Cry), Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:47:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29294655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pirori/pseuds/vvv
Summary: V coexists in Vergil's mind, who, much to his chagrin, seeks V's counsel on matters of the heart.
Relationships: V/Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Kudos: 8





	World of V

Their house stands on verdant green fields, on a backdrop of molded earth and stone. In the scene, life, abundant in all things from the dirt to the air and sky, shone in exceedingly bright hues. Once a pile of debris and wreckage, the house stood anew as a result of _his_ mind.

Home of Vergil and Dante, where their short happy, and competitive memories roam the interior as ghosts, filling these vacant halls with a semblance of their echoes. Sometimes the visage of their mother and father flickered in and out, like candles in the wind. A smile may alight on their faces, nod subtly, or go here and there before vanishing completely. Other times, well, it wasn't easy to place.

Amidst the blooms of time stand some of the most formidable nightmares. Rotting in the darkest corners, sometimes bringing with it the scent of ash, fire, and bloodshed that penned the story we all know today.

No, not the story of the Legendary Dark Knight Sparda and his acts of courage. Instead, the tale of the twins who inherited his legacy - that of Dante and Vergil, whose carefree childhood was cut short by tragedy.

* * *

Beyond the sunny disposition of this house - this _memory_ \- is the consequence of the events that passed and the beings borne from compacted and unresolved trauma.

In the interior, V is dressed in a loose off-white blouse rolled at the sleeves to expose his arms inches above his elbows. He wore fitted black pants, folded at the cuffs, atop bare ankles and feet. His hair was resplendent white, framing and partially obscuring the right of his face in soft waves, just about curling at the nape of his neck. 

His room is reminiscent of the old man’s library, indulgent with bookcases filled to the brim. Several spaces were dedicated to displaying various memorabilia that purveyed his fancy. The room glittered, basking in warm natural light from open high arched windows.

He stands at an easel, right hand poised with a brush; his left outfitted with a palette, slightly obscured by the backside of the easel stand.

Clouded green eyes contemplate on the image before him, still unseen by the viewer of this scene. Thoughtful as always, he remains in this headspace for an undetermined amount of time before a breeze brings in a dark blue bird, swift and quiet and no larger than a common robin.

Griffon, but not. The bird landed on the top edge of the easel, peering at the painter at work. His voice, unbefitting his image, came as bold as the viewer might recall:

“Yo V, thinking about mommy dearest again, are ya?” Griffon puffed in his form, looking like an emperor in new clothes. “Or is this _his_ memory?”

 _His_. Such was this new conscious life. Now unburdened with a physical body, V’s conscience was now inextricably linked with his outer self: Vergil. Since becoming whole again, memories, thoughts, among other internal strife, would trickle into V’s awareness. Dabbling in painting was V’s way of recording what came to pass.

Having experienced the prior calamity where he nearly ended the outer world, Vergil trod carefully with his new lease on life. There were some things he could not bear to face yet, as the wounds were still fresh. His pride would never let him openly talk about specific topics with others; instead, he felt he lacked the vocabulary to do so. 

Though V himself may not have divulged once, he at least had the sense to come to terms with his futile trait near the end of his journey. Especially when his death at the time could have been the end of existence as he knew it.

A different thought came to mind.

 _If I were to become corporeal again_ \- V gripped the brush, dipping it into a smear of paint on the palette. Better to busy himself than dawdle.

These thoughts came and went like a cockroach in the night. And just like with a cockroach, V acknowledged their maligned presence and let them pass.

“You’re making that face again, V.” Griffon’s conspiratorial voice echoed in the room. He leaned forward, tilting his head inquiringly. “Even now, you’re not satisfied, are ya?”

Griffon seemed to pride himself on speaking V's most foolish thoughts. 

For example, as Nelo Angelo, he could not speak or do as he pleased. So, having Griffon around was better company than having no one at all. Besides, even he, as V, felt unworthy vocalizing parts of himself. Better to defer to someone with the right mindset and attitude to do it for him.

“ _How can a bird that is born for joy sit in a cage and sing?_ ” A sliver of a smile lifted the corner of V’s lips, giving form to the angles on the man’s otherwise soft physiognomy. There, before the closing of the eyes, a glimmer of malign intent.

 _It cannot remain caged for eternity._

The thought rang as loud as Griffon’s tenor, inciting a storm of a memory.

Just then, a small black cat brushed against V’s ankles, crowing for his attention. Its round amber eyes spoke volumes as if it felt the swell of emotion that coursed in him. 

_Freedom, is it not the same as Vergil’s search for power?_

After all, being human equates to being free, and the choices that become open when free to do so. And in this world, a demon had won humans their freedom, if not, for a little while at least. 

Shadow mewed again, sitting obediently on her haunches. Her curious eyes were calming, opulent, and shone with a glint of the shapeshifting predator she was. Not that she would ever harm V, her calls to attention served to humble and remind him - as his sword and shield. There is prudence in waiting, observing before reacting.

V's train of thought fell abruptly. Remorseful, he exhaled.

“I shall not think anymore on the subject,” he promised her, relaxing his arms from the easel. “His timing is impeccable, though I’m not surprised. His mind has been abuzz since this morning.”

The room shifted slightly. There was no audible indicator as to when Vergil would appear. It was all intuition on V's part. 

V set the palette onto the nearby table, brushes tossed in a can of paint thinner right beside. He moved towards a sink in the far corner of the room, just out of reach of the natural light.

His eyes met with a rectangular mirror, upright and large enough to reflect his upper half. As he approached, the mirror’s surface showed a glimmer of a crack - then one, two, three notches slid across and grew. Each spidered into one another until the entire mirror no longer showed the sunlit glory that was V’s room.

Violent blue light peered from beyond the abyss. Among the cracks were varying panels of familiar characters, tempting V with visions of his past.

Griffon in his predatory form, crackling with electricity. Shadow in another, shifting to hazardous spikes. Nightmare’s characteristic eye was glowering in the distance, ready to fire a devastating laser. 

Then there _he_ was, frail, cracking at the skin and leaning helplessly onto Nero’s side. In another groove was the hollow servant, Nelo Angelo. Then, the demon dubbed Urizen’s many eyes blinked in and out of view, taunting him with a toothy grin - his reach somehow creeping through the cracks like the blood that dripped from the Qliphoth.

“V,” Griffon beckoned from behind.

Footsteps beyond the wall echoed, coming closer and closer.

A flutter of wings. Tiny claws gripped the collar of V’s shirt. Small teeth tugged and pulled at his pant leg - Shadow. Together, they directed V from the shade and into the light. As he backed away, the mirror resumed its regular appearance. Its gilded bronze edges flared from the intensity of the sunlit room, the glass, merely reflecting his momentary panic. Absolutely ordinary. 

The door creaked open.

Vergil stepped into the entryway, the man’s stony-complexion wrenched in frustration. Wordlessly, he entered the shaded area of the room, taking the nearest seat he could find at a dining table. He lounged back into it, eyes closed in thought. His gloved hand mindlessly slid through his up-styled hair before crashing over his stoic profile, hovering over a frown. 

Annoyance, but without a means of expression. It was bottled up in a flume, near to bursting.

V, in the light, took in this image. The atmosphere became palpable as soon as Vergil walked in. His presence is as tangible as the war-torn fringe on his coattails.

Silently, V sat at the farthest chair at the end of the table, accompanied by his friends in the sun. Elbows on the surface, chin resting on an open palm, he waited for the silence to break.

Vergil did not mince words when he spoke, but the bulk of his problems lay in what went unsaid. V could understand most of those at an intuitive level. It was hard enough dealing with them internally, but physically, to give counsel about them to yourself? It proved to be an even more formidable task.

When Vergil visited V, it was to talk about matters that he felt unequipped to process. Working together for survival has been their new relationship - instead of foolishly throwing his humanity away. 

So, why would Vergil need to counsel with V? He was reasonably independent. The majority of his problems relied on besting his opponent in battle, which was precisely the problem. Vergil’s particular challenge fell elsewhere.

“How long will you keep staring?” Came his harsh voice, tinged with the edge of someone too proud. 

V shook his head. “We do this all the time. I thought you would expect it by now,” was his simple reply. “What is it this time, _old man?_ Or is it _asshole,_ today?” A moniker that’s been thrown around by Dante and Nero, respectively.

 _Someone’s got to keep an eye on your old man._ Dante said once.

 _Fuck you, asshole!_ Nero had reprimanded.

“Both. But, as you say-” Vergil sat up, steely eyes glaring from the shade “-it is to be expected.”

“Naturally.” V glanced at the painting behind him, presumably guiding Vergil’s line of sight too.

Eva stared back at them, her blurry face framed in long blonde tresses. V may as well have painted Trish, but Vergil’s nuanced memory today left the facial details nondescript.

 _Mother_.

Dante said she had left him to look for Vergil but died miserably in the process. Vergil, who had run away before the event, met an unfortunate fate as well that night during the fire. 

Cast aside, to forge his path alone.

The trauma that blinded him then still affected him now. With Nero in the picture, however, it brought about a different perspective.

His son that he didn’t know or wanted to acknowledge the possibility of, out of incredulous disbelief, that he could ever fall prey to his human side. Yet, he was _his_ legacy. Similar to how Sparda left Dante and Vergil theirs. 

This thought churned in his mind, shifting the tenor of trauma that supposedly knew one tune and one solution.

While it offered moments of calm, the fallout of emotions from that revelation runs as volatile as stepping out from the eye of a hurricane. Vergil was unprepared. For all his unparalleled strength, this was a different battle.

As a person, Vergil felt that he and Dante differed here. Dante was always outgoing and outspoken, tactless, and without a care in the world. In contrast, Vergil thought he could not, for appearance’s sake. 

Taking on this role, of being Dante’s _other_ \- Vergil’s heart had hardened. And over the years, it became far more fragile, covered by thorns not entirely his own. 

V felt that his omnipotence had its limit then. 

It was possible that Vergil, knowing of V’s sentience, adapted to partition parts of himself completely opaque to V since their union. Unreadable, unpredictable, and tumultuous, even now, it was not entirely unthinkable for Vergil to hide something from himself. 

It would be a discovery if proven correct. But V could only speculate unless Vergil told him directly.

V considered this for a moment. 

_What of Vergil?_ How aware was he of V’s thoughts? 

The skin on the back of V’s neck prickled. It would be foolish to do so. What would Vergil have to lose? 

In response, Griffon planted himself onto his shoulder. Shadow leaped onto the table, circling, only to pause and lay alongside V’s forearm. The sensation of bodily warmth was comforting.

Vergil shifted in his chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees - he faced V now, hunched in brooding silence. Would he comment on V’s train of thought? Would Vergil reprimand him or vanish (as it had happened before). 

V felt uneasy, but he could only wait for Vergil to make his move.

The man before him was not pleased. His countenance confirmed it. And it was becoming apparent, by the feeling V was getting, that it more about Vergil’s animosity about Eva. 

He was ruminating about the painting. Knowing that made it easier for V to breathe and relaxed.

V closed his eyes and caught a glimpse of the fields outside their home. Eva, in her red shawl, resting in the shade of a tree. Her eyes gleamed in scraps of light, cheering as the brothers play-fought in the sun. 

_Mother,_ who seemed to favor one over the other. 

Mother, who disappeared as Vergil did. 

The memory deteriorated into the dilapidated mess that resulted from that night.

He opened his eyes to find it restored, shining, and bright. Ironic, and how fitting it was, that this was the space Vergil had nursed all these years.

V crossed his arms and sighed. _“I wanted to be protected and loved. But I was alone. My only choice was to survive,”_ V stated plainly, half-smiling to himself. “Thinking of the past _is_ our favorite hobby, but being human is having the freedom to choose differently. Even about what we believe is true. You are a survivor, but you are not alone anymore.”

And before Vergil could speak, V continued. “In Nero’s case, he has a candid way of speaking, but no matter what you might think, Nero _wants_ you around. That bull-headed child has a heart of soft, malleable gold.”

Vergil still looked perplexed. Some aspect of his posture slackened, though.

“And Dante too. Don’t forget that.” V sat back onto his chair. 

“Recall the joy you felt fighting alongside Dante at the roots of the Qlipoth. Remember the feelings you had afterward and all that you’ve been through together since then. As much as it annoys you, you know that what you’ve been experiencing is a genuine and sincere joy of being around people who give a damn.” In V’s heart of hearts, he knew this to be true. If he did, then Vergil knew as well. 

After all these years, one power struggle after another, Dante never failed to be there somehow. V’s folly - theirs - weighed the heaviest in their heart.

_Things could’ve been different, couldn’t they?_

The silence was mutual. Vergil shifted, as V did the same in his chair. Intuition told V that this thought was apparent between the both of them.

Resignation, but not quite, softened Vergil’s features. Vergil’s stance was secure on the chair, hands in front, laced in solidarity. Outwardly, nothing changed, but the atmosphere felt lighter, less oppressive.

Progress.


End file.
